


Body and Soul (and beans)

by giuseppimezzoalto



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: (beans are back in town), M/M, Trans Mettaton, i am still not a furry, once again banging implied but not explicit, probably, the beans are back in town
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-26
Updated: 2016-01-26
Packaged: 2018-05-16 08:22:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5821150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/giuseppimezzoalto/pseuds/giuseppimezzoalto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spooning with a killer robot goes about as well as one would expect it to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Body and Soul (and beans)

It’s really, _really_ unnerving to spoon something that isn’t breathing.

What you’re doing is something you’ve put a lot of thought into. A fantasy you’ve spent years carefully structuring. A steamy night of poontang with some smokin’ hot gal or fella - and then the aftermath: you, with a winning grin, popping a cigarette between your teeth and dashingly gathering your pal for the night into your arms where you’ll both drift off into a happy, sated slumber.

The reality’s something more along the lines of ‘you, with a butt-ton of pink goop matted into your fur, a pointed shoulderpad jammed in your face and one arm firmly wedged under a metal chassis (and losing more and more circulation with every second that passes)’. You’re starting to think it might drop off. That probably wouldn’t be so bad, actually. Maybe it’ll be the big break you’ve been waiting for. Your bid for freedom. Can’t work with no hand, after all.

Wait, no, that’s a really shitty thing to think. There’s plenty of people out there workin’ hard with only one hand. Or no hands, even. Way to invalidate the shit out of them, there, BP.

Besides, it’s your right hand. You have a feeling Mettaton would like you considerably less without your right hand. No right hand would mean no more of… this. And no more of this would _suck_. Not that having this doesn't also suck. But that's got more to do with your deep seated self-repulsion at your complete lack of self control than anything else, how they haven't even been a solid minute of ‘fuck you boss, I got more class than that’ before the ‘aw jeez, boss, that'd be real nice,’ how you tell yourself you hate the long-legged fucker’s metaphorical guts and yet when you're apart, aforementioned right hand is usually busying itself over a handful of photographs of the metallic shitlord.

Basically you're just a fucking slave to the robo-pussy.

You find yourself wondering - as you often seem to these days - how the hell that even works. What the hell kind of scientist makes a robot you can fuck? Well, in all fairness, you know the answer to that question. Only the fucking _royal_ one. Dame must be into some pretty messed up shit.

Then again, it would seem that by extension, so are you.

But jeez, how _does_ that work? How does any of it work? Since your curiosity doesn't seem like it's going anywhere in a hurry (and you probably aren't going to be getting any sleep anytime soon thanks to the weird fish tank noise you've never noticed he makes), you push yourself gingerly onto one elbow as best you can given that your arm’s having the life crushed out of it.

You let your eyes drift over the metallic body, the pink glow at its center helpfully casting a soft light over his curves even through the sheets, so your kind of shitty I’ve-squinted-at-way-too-many-porn-mags-in-the-dark vision isn’t too much of an issue.

It only occurs to you now that you’ve never really gotten a good look at him. Well, unless you count that thing he does where he sticks his leg up onto the counter and grins at you for ten minutes straight whilst playing soft synthpop through his speaker - but your eyes are usually blurring way too hard to take in specifics when that happens. Maybe out of anger, maybe out of something else - hell, you don’t fucking know anymore. The two tend to go hand in hand when it comes to dealing with Mettaton. You decide he’s a lot more palatable when he’s like this. Aka powered off and not making fun of you. Just… being pretty.

OK, jeez Louise, that had sounded _weird_ . _Real_ weird. Like, _necrophiliac_ weird. Wow, Burgerpants. You’re apparently some kinda creep now. Congratulations.

You decide to move swiftly away from that train of thought before it gets any more disturbing, peering over the top of him to get a look at his face. It isn’t often that Mettaton sticks around - and by ‘often,’ you mean ‘ever’ - he must be really pooped.

Which means he _probably_ won’t wake up - if he even _can_ ‘wake up’.

So you indulge yourself; sift synthetic hair through your fingers to see if it feels real (update: it does), let his (at least inch-long) eyelashes tickle the pad of your paw, brush those giant bangs aside to reveal-- oh _shit_.

A quiet, surprised curse escapes you before you can stop it as your gaze runs over plains of exposed wiring that run in messy crisscrosses.  You’d… kind of always assumed that the bangs were some sort of edgy fashion choice. Either that or he had some kind of secret laser eye. Not this weird mess. Plus, if he had a laser eye he’d have probably used it on you by now. Well, not _on_ you, per se, but probably _around_ you. To project laser beams and watch you unwillingly chase them for the next hour or so. Bastard. _Theoretical_ bastard.

You quickly sweep the hair back down, curiosity sated and mind made up that you quite like your head where it is: sitting at the end of your neck. Which it probably wouldn’t continue to, should Mettaton find out about this.

Which leaves only one item on your little spontaneous agenda.

You duck your head under the covers, wincing a little with that light that’s projected from your mission objective. Mettaton’s soul is suspended in the glass chamber at his midriff, held in place by some kind of liquid that’s got a constant flow of aeration running through it, thousands of tiny bubbles constantly rising to the surface. Guess that solves the fish-tank-noise mystery.

You find yourself transfixed - you’ve never seen a soul this close before - and you can’t quite seem to pull your eyes away as it pulses softly, its pink light fluctuating between a gentle glow and a bright, neon gleam that’s almost painful to look at.

You release the breath you hadn’t even realized you’d been holding, one hand drifting up to press against the glass - only to have the sound of a CPU fan whirring to life at the speed of sound make you all but shit yourself as the blanket’s ripped away and you’re faced with the piercing pink stare of a single, furious eye.

“And just _what_ do you think you’re doing?”

Well _shit_.

“Fuck, boss, n-nothing! Jesus, you nearly made me crap m--”

“You were trying to _off_ me, weren’t you, you weasly little runt!?” The android’s eyes flare with the accusation, and you’re starting to think that earlier idea of you keeping your head’s about to be nothing more than a nice thought. “Your searing envy of my fame and beauty grew too much for your feeble little body to bear and you thought you’d bump me off while I had my guard down, didn’t you? Didn’t you!?”

“No!! No, I-- I was just lookin’, Mettaton, I swear!” you splutter, holding up your sweaty palms in what you hope is a pacifying gesture. He doesn’t _look_ like he’s about to murder you… but you never really can tell with Mettaton. Besides, yeah, sure, he might not _kill_ you - but boy does he look _mad_.

“Looking at _what_ , exactly? I find it a little too happy a coincidence that the thing you were _just looking_ at so _happens_ to be the very essence of my being,” he hisses, eye narrowed to little more than an angry pink slit.

“But it did! I-I mean it was! I mean…” You halt your rather incoherent babbling, heavy a deep sigh as you feel your face flush. “I… was just lookin’ at your soul, is all. It’s… it’s real pretty. I never seen one all close-like before.

Well, there’s that drawl you’ve worked so hard to eliminate in an effort to come across more ‘actorly’ rearing its ugly head again. Hello, darkness, my old friend.

Still, it brings a smile to Mettaton’s face. Albeit a kind of pointy and mean-looking one.

“...so can I?” you quickly blurt, because you’re a man who knows what he wants, not some little wimp who backs down just like that. And also because you don’t want to give Mettaton the chance to say something antagonistic. Said robot looks down at you with an indifferent languor.

“Can you what?”

“Look at your soul,” you repeat with a degree of irritation, because only your asshole boss would grill the shit out of you about something he’ll no longer give a crap about in ten seconds time.

“Oh.” Mettaton’s brow quirks a moment, before descending into a deep furrow. “Of course you can’t, darling.”

“What!? Why not!?”

“Well I’m not going to let just anyone go prodding around down there, am I? Besides, knowing your level of general ineptitude, you’d probably break it.”

“Can souls even break?”

“I’m sure you’d manage somehow.”

“...you spend enough time pokin’ around with my beans,” you huff, unable to quite believe this douchebag and his cruddy double standards.

“So I’m unable to resist the pull of your only redeeming feature. Sue me,” he all but chirps, and your ears flatten irritably against your skull. This is _bulltshit_ . He’s allowed to go round squishing your long-suffering paws as he fucking pleases - including, might you add, that one time he called you up at 3AM wailing down the phone that the situation was _dire_ and you simply _had_ to go over to his place _immediately_ \- but instead of it being some awesome sexy thing (I mean, that’s what anyone would get from that, right? Right?), he’d just grabbed your peets, given ‘em a little squeeze and then shut the door in your face. Anticipation-boner still very much intact, just FYI.

You snarl out an annoyed little growl, making a quick, last-ditch addition under your breath:

“You let me touch your pu--”

“ _What was that, darling?_ ”

Hoo boy, ok, well there’s that shit-scary glowing eye again.

“Nothing!!”

“Ah, good, I thought not,” he smiles (fucking hell, have his teeth always been that pointy?) and sits up in your little bed, running a hand through his hair. “Besides, why should I indulge you for being a nosy little pest? You made my systems initiate and emergency boot protocol and now my head feels just _abominable_.”

He’s talking like something straight out of some period drama, back of his hand pressed to his forehead and all - though it’d probably be more effective if you had a single clue what he’s going on about.

“An emergency what? Weren’t you just sleepin’?”

He looks at you like you’re a smear of shit on the bottom of his stiletto.

“Robots don’t need _sleep_ , _sweetheart_.” The guy has a real skill for making a cutesy pet name feel like a punch in the nose. “I just power down. Think of it like… I don’t know, a television. A very attractive television.”

“Yeah, but if you weren’t sleeping, how come you woke up, then? A TV doesn’t turn on unless someone presses the button,” you protest, feeling very chuffed with yourself. That’ll catch him out. Smarmy fucker probably just tries to act like he doesn’t sleep because it makes him feel like he’s better than everyone else.

Although for someone who was just on the receiving end of a logic-smackdown, Mettaton doesn’t look very taken aback.

“Yes - hence ‘emergency startup protocols,’ honey,” he says flatly, giving you a look that isn’t even irritated - just pitying. Which, honestly, is about twenty times worse. “I’ll put it into words that’ll better fit your level of understanding; Dr. Alphys installed certain automated functions in my body to make it so I’m not reduced to complete vulnerability while I’m ‘resting’. In short, I power on if there’s a decisive enough touch to my soul chamber, or if I’m picked up or otherwise manhandled.”

Your confusion must have shown in your face, because he elaborates with a grin that’s nothing short of utterly conceited.

“I’m the biggest star in the Underground, darling.” Yeah, more like the _only_ one because he probably straight-up killed any and all competition. You wouldn’t put it past him. “I can’t go having someone kill me. Though why anyone would want to is beyond me.”

...eh, you can think of a couple reasons.

“Kidnapping me, on the other hand, I could _completely_ understand. But since I can’t really let that happen, either…” He pauses, and pats his chest panel. It’s a little disturbing how he looks almost _disappointed_. “Emergency start up protocols.”

“Huh.”

It briefly crosses your mind that if anyone did try to kidnap Mettaton, they'd probably end up giving him back in like a day anyway when he started going all diva on them. In fact, with how familiar you are with all his weird demands, _you'd_ probably be the best candidate to kidnap him.

...Christ, and there you go with the creepy thoughts again. Not that they're actually creepy thoughts. Because you don't actually want to kidnap him. That'd be even harder than working for him.

“Fine.”

You snap out of your little reverie, your eyes breaking away from the pink light they’d been once again unconsciously drawn to and meeting Mettaton’s. Well, for the split second before he rolls it, anyway.

“If it’s going to stop your gormless staring and perhaps, heaven forbid, lead to me finally getting in a decent beauty-charge, then fine. You can look.”

You hadn’t actually realized you’d been staring, but you give a cool little smirk to make it look like that had been your carefully calculated (and existent) plan all along.

There’s a gurgling sound like draining bathwater, followed by a soft hiss and you realize after a Big Damn Double Take that he’s only gone and opened up his soul chamber - and said soul is wafting towards you like a tiny ghost. Like it’s _alive_. Which is exactly what ghosts aren’t. But whatever. You’re kind of too weirded out to make good analogies right now. The point is: what the fuck.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, I thought you said _look_!” you yelp, scrambling rather gracelessly away from the impending pink menace that is Mettaton’s soul.

“And _I_ thought it would be a privilege to be afforded a close look, so start acting more grateful before I change my mind!”

“Ok, ok, sorry! Sorry. Just caught me off guard is all.”

Gingerly, you shuffle forward on your knees, eyeing the soul all the while because, who knows, maybe this is another one of his shitty tricks. Maybe it… shoots lightning, or something. You don’t fucking know. But when you steal a quick glance at Mettaton’s face, there’s (surprisingly) no trace of mischief or smugness or even that weird-ass face he does when he’s about to do something shitty that makes him look more like a cat than you do. He just looks tired. And impatient. Like he’s waiting for something.

Oh. Shit. Right.

You tap the pads of your paw together as you warily extend an arm - well, it’s wary for all of two seconds before Mettaton heaves an irritated sigh and promptly grabs hold of your wrist to yank your paw into it. Needless to say, the fact that it nearly slips off again adds a brand new layer of ‘what the fuck’ to what’s become your very own metaphorical what-the-fuck Starfait™.

“What the hell!? It’s _slimy_!” you squeal, retracting your hand faster than if you’d burnt it on the fryer (though that’s not really saying a lot - you’re all but numb to that shit at this stage).

“It isn’t _slimy_ , it’s _ectoplasmic_ , you boorish little-- look, if you keep up this _rudeness_ , I’ll toss you out on the street!”

“This is _my house_!”

“ _And_? These arms are still here and still very much primed for tossing.”

“Sorry!” you all but wail, and quickly grab hold of it again to rectify the situation - only you grabbed so hard that your fucking finger went _through_ it.

“Ow! What on earth did you just--” he breaks off, alarmed gaze darting down to his soul and turning… about ten times more alarmed. Well, until it focuses itself on you and goes from ‘alarmed’ to ‘get ready to die’. “ _Burgerpants._ ”

“Oh fuck. Oh _fuck_!”

You flap your hands around like a bird gone wild; though you still have them clasped together to prevent the fucking thing from going sailing across the room, so really it’s more like a miner gone wild. Mettaton sits up bolt-straight, clenching one hand in the bedding and jabbing the other in your direction with enough force to bring down a building, which only makes you panic harder. Because if there’s one thing you’ve learnt from years in the sparkly asshole’s employment, it’s that Mettaton makes _every_ situation worse. And much as you hate him, you aren’t about to let him go accidentally turning his own soul into a pancake.

Though the thunderous look he gives you is almost enough to make you reconsider.

“Get your _finger_ out of my _soul_ this _instant_ , young man!”

“I can’t!! What if it _bleeds_!? O-Or deflates!?”

“You little _imbecile_ , souls do not _bleed,_ or _deflate_! _I’ll_ get it out!”

“No! No, you’ll make it worse!” you shriek, and defensively cup your hands around it, drawing it into your chest.

“It’s _my_ soul!”

“It’s _my_ finger!”

“Augh! The _nerve_!”

“Boss, please! C’mon. Just lemme…” You carefully open up your hands once he’s stopped looking like he’s about to dive forward and rip your head off - though he continues to regard you with pursed lips and a glare sharp enough to put someone in hospital as you delicately extract your rogue claw. The whole operation goes rather smoothly, considering that both your arms felt like they’d turned to jelly the moment you’d unwittingly impaled the thing - and you’re pleasantly surprised to find that the dent has closed itself before you’d even gotten a look at the damage. Which means Mettaton has no grounds to kill you. Right?

“I knew it was a mistake to let someone as cack-handed as you near it. Or it would be, if I _made_ mistakes,” he hisses, giving you a look like you’d just punched a puppy in the face. Although, granted, whilst his shittiness towards you is often unprompted (in your opinion), you _did_ just kinda puncture his soul. So you guess he does sort of have a right to be mad.

“I’m _sorry_ , ok? But jeez, if you’d just stop yellin’ at me and let me look--”

“You think I’m going to let you look again after _that_ little debacle!?” he practically screeches, and snatches it right out of your hands, much to your chagrin.

“ _Please_!” You surprise yourself with how urgent that had come out. Jeez. When did you get so invested? You just… really want him to give you a chance. “I’ll... be real careful, alright, boss?”

Mettaton narrows his eye at you, and inhales through his nose for about twenty seconds (how he does that without lungs is beyond you).

“ _Fine_. But one false move - _one_ more - and you can kiss your job goodbye. And your head,” he hisses, and extends it to you - though he’s clearly not letting go of it this time.

“Alright, alright, point taken,” you mumble, and cautiously scooch forward for another feel. It’s definitely less weird the second time - more silky than slimy as you slip your hands between Mettaton’s and the soul to cradle it in the middle of your paws. There’s small, dust-like wisps of pink surrounding it that curl into little glowing tendrils and give the whole thing a kind of ethereal look. Like when you drop paint into water. Your breath catches in your throat.

“It’s, uh… it’s beautiful, boss. Real… real beautiful.”

“Well of course it is. It’s part of _me_.”

The moment’s too nice for you to even bother rolling your eyes - you just sit there, feeling the gentle thrum that’s not quite as powerful as a heartbeat - hell, maybe it’s not even there at _all_ \- but you’re sure you can feel _something_ , some kind of pulsing swell of energy as the backs of your hands relax into the palms of Mettaton’s synthetic ones.

“Right. Quite enough of that. Can’t have it turning into a prune,” Mettaton declares after what might have been a minute and might have been an hour, scooping it carefully from your hands and back into the open chamber at his chest, clicking the glass door back into place.

“...thanks,” you eventually say after a few moments of quiet punctuated only by the gushing sound of what you assume is the tank filling back up. His eyebrow quirks.

“You say that as if this isn’t a two-way street.”

“...eh?”

“Hand ‘em over, honey.”

And as you hand your paw over for mandatory bean-squeezing, you find yourself thinking that just this once, maybe you don’t mind _so_ much.  


End file.
